the days indeed pass by swiftly
the seasons are like the flaps of a bird's wing
our moments are like the movements of billiard balls
we hear sounds of collisions and then some colors are gone
the boy that mother coddled before
died a few years back before growing his fingernails
mother shrunk like a deflated balloon
and what is left is her scent of milk
the sound of the cradle turns into a creak of an
old door
the footsteps of Papa on that pavement
are like the steps on the sand dunes easily blown by the winds
of changing times
when you come back to a previous place
the faces that meet you give you the blank looks
not even quizzical for no one knows you or any member of your family
your heart is an empty home looking for anyone
who can remember the sounds of children
who can identify the games that once were played under the moon
but there is no one there anymore and so you take the bus
heading to the new place of your existence
you are like an old woman gathering the white cloth and the needle and
the colored threads
beginning another design for another embroidery
and mo matter how sweet are the memories they have to take their exits
giving chance to the incoming ones which to your mind
are not really that exciting anymore
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem